The Two Kings

by Marian Gray

  “Hafmar the snake!” an unknown man announced, much to the amusement of the others.

  The youth’s face burned bright red. He lunged with a jab. Hafmar blocked it with his forearm and buried a beastly uppercut in his attacker’s stomach.

  A boom of a groan left the young man’s mouth and was followed by the contents of his stomach. Miode and meat spewed out from between his lips in ragged streams. The sight made my stomach turn.

  The crowd gave a mix of disgusted cries and clapping laughs.

  “Well,” Svotheim began, lifting his goblet to his lips, “I didn’t expect that to happen.”

  “Hafmar! Hafmar! Hafmar!” A thin-haired man rose from the table, shouting. His fist thundered upward with each call of the harbor master’s name.

  Several others gathered in and clapped along in time.

  Hafmar stood before them, his arms outstretched in all their glory. His chin ducked down just before he released a burp. “I am Hafmar the Snake!”

  As soon as the victor sat down, another pair popped up from the bench, eager to beat each other to a bloody pulp before an audience. Just as the others had been, these two were already well into their cups. Their strikes were labored and their movement uninhibited. After each swing, a chuckle or unhindered laugh would rain out. They knocked each other around for fun more than out of anger or a deep-seated need to dominate.

  “So, the fighting has started, when does the sex commence?” I whispered to Svotheim.

  “Just need a few more drinks, I suppose.”

  “Svotheim.” Solvild’s voice slid between us. “Would you join me for a small walk?” He glanced at me with kohl-lined eyes. “Just you.”

  Svotheim’s brow lowered. “Now? I’m halfway through my meal.”

  “Yes, now. I have a little crumb that I think you’d like to hear.”

  He raised his napkin to his lips, blotting away the oils and spices. “And what will this crumb cost me?”

  “Nothing.” Solvild shook his head. “Think of it as a gift for friendship’s sake.”

  “Nothing is free from those who find their worth in gossip and rumors,” Svotheim said as he rose from his seat. His attention turned to me. “Don’t leave this table. I won’t be gone long.”

  Solvild rolled his eyes. “She’s not a child, Svotheim. And you couldn’t possibly lose her in this crowd of cream.”

  “Crowd of cream?” Svotheim repeated.

  Solvild shrugged. “It’s better than a gaggle of ghosts like you have in Varund.”

  “Alright.” Svotheim placed his hand on Solvild’s angular shoulder. “Let’s walk.”

  The pair practically floated out of the hall. Solvild was particularly light on his feet, careful not to draw attention to their mid-feast exit.

  My eyes stared out at the people, watching as I forked food into my mouth. Solvild liked to paint it out as though the Rekke and Varundians were drastically different, but the gap between the two peoples didn’t seem so wide from my seat. Sure, the Rekke were a little more rowdy and extravagant in their behavior, but their burning desire for glory was the same.

  A moan whipped out into the grand room, drawing my attention to a far corner. A man had a woman bent over a table, hammering out his desires with each thrust of his hips. His partner put on a grand show, voicing her enjoyment with every breath while her skirts remained hiked up to her hips. Those near them watched, unable or unwilling to peel their gazes from the scene.

  Did sex really feel that good? I imagined most of the joy would be lost by having so many eyes watching… or maybe it only added to hers. My chest tightened as my mind toyed with all the sensations that must be sprinting through her body. Wet thighs, hammering heartbeat, tensed muscles. His hands held her wrists down, pinning her to the table. It evoked such a visceral yearning inside me—the idea of being so desired that someone would hold you there to have you.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Daughter of Athiss?” Prince Torram asked as he slid into Svotheim’s vacant seat. His eyes were a striking icy gray, holding my attention.

  I felt a twinge of shame answering his question, given what I had just been watching. “So, you like the name?”

  “Very much so.” He sat back in the chair, regarding me with an inquisitive glance. “I was there, you know. I was in the temple when the priest spoke to you. I almost approached Hetla to purchase you right then and there.”

  His confession took me by surprise. “Why didn’t you?” I hadn’t even known of his existence during the festival, let alone that he was in the temple.

  “It wouldn’t have been appropriate, given the occasion.”

  Relief washed over me. It was difficult to break from slavery beneath a successful craftsman. I had a feeling rising out from under a prince would have been nearly impossible. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be then.”

  “Perhaps not.” He shrugged. The Rekke accent amused me, but his smoky voice attached to it gave the language a different sound. “Why do you think the priest sought you out?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I look different,” I lied.

  “All of our slaves look different,” he countered. “There’s something that he sensed in you.” He met my eyes. “Something I sense too.”

  Heat filled my chest and flared up my neck into my cheeks. The way the words rolled off his tongue, combined with his heavy gaze, made my stomach flutter. “What do you think it is then?”

  “Great potential power.” He leaned over the cushioned arm, chipping away some of the distance between us. “But it’s also seductive.”

  “For someone with such a cold reputation, you sure are trying to warm me up,” I teased. Maybe it was a little too bold of me.

  He grinned. “You’re just used to that frigid, stormy bay of modesty.”

  This was the second time I had heard someone call Varundians reserved and bland. “Cultural perspective is all relative. I think the Varundians have a very rich and powerful aspect to them.”

  Torram chuckled at me. “They’re the dull, bleak power in the Norrender world. Everything they do is done well and with eagle-eye precision, but they do it all without any flair. They sacrifice beauty and art for efficiency. If you had come to Rekkesov, there’s no way you would have stayed in the hands of a builder.”

  I drew in a deep breath to calm my nerves. “So what’s the angle? Why is a famous prince like you flirting with a lowly slave?”

  His brow lifted. “I’m sorry. I thought I was being very clear with my intentions. I’m attracted to you.”

  My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t believe how forward he was being. My mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out.

  “But I don’t want to bed you. At least not right away. I want to help you. I want to get in your good graces.”

  “Then give Svotheim what he asked for.” I needed him to save me from his wrath when I refused to go to Essony once again.

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t want to help Ark Ulfur. I want to help you. I want to follow the Daughter of Athiss.”

  “I appreciate your sentiment, but I am nothing but a slave right now. There is nothing to follow.” I cleared my throat and lowered my voice. “By helping Ark Ulfur, you’ll be helping me.”

  “I once felt the same way when I was much younger. I did what I had to in order to overcome my fate as a second son.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Do what it takes to rise above. Show us that you are more than a slave. Don’t wait around for someone else to buy you because all that does is make you a slave again.”

  A loud clang stole my attention. I glanced at Veny, who had slammed her goblet on the table. She dragged her sleeve across her mouth, wiping away the excess. Her gaze was pinned on me, and a malicious grin swelled across her face. Something sinister was brewing behind those eyes. “Slave!” She pointed at me. “Stand and raise your fists.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I wanted to melt into my seat and sink into the cracks in the floor. Svotheim had war
ned me about this, but I still held out hope that I would avoid any scuffles.

  Veny’s thick legs rose from her seat. The fit of her trousers caught my attention. The material was slack and laced in the front, worn in the same fashion as a man’s.

  I glanced to Torram, searching for an out. Surely, he could do or say something to intervene. But he just licked his lips. His face was painted with eager anticipation. I was going to have to actually fight this brute in front of everyone.

  I swallowed hard. My face was numb from drink, and my mouth dried. I was frozen in my chair.

  Torram’s hand wrapped around my elbow as he pulled me near. His lips tickled my ear and whispered with a breathy bite, “Get up.”

  My heart slipped down through my stomach and landed in my toes. I was sure its weight would take my spine along with it, but my back still held straight. Upon doubtful legs, I stood to face my adversary.

  With a wide grin, the hearty woman revealed rows of square teeth. Her leather boots clapped against the seat of her chair as she stepped up. Another foot placed itself around plates and cups, hauling her onto the table. Several onlookers slammed fists and goblets on the table in cheer. The sound created a deep drum that rattled my nerves.

  The king laughed with enough gusto to bring down a house.

  Each clomp of the warrior’s foot sent my heart into a sputter. A hot burn trickled just beneath my skin, building in time to Veny’s steps. It grew to uncomfortable heat, like static-charged wax slipping along my flesh.

  I couldn’t do this. I didn’t know if I could keep inside whatever was churning to be released, and I wasn’t ready to reveal my secret to a hall full of foreigners. It was too soon. They didn’t see me as an equal—I didn’t have any glory or wealth or fame. I couldn’t demand my freedom. If my powers came out, my shackles would be permanent. No one would set me free.

  “I think the little slave is shivering in her boots.” Veny chuckled as she stepped down from the table like a troll leaving its bridge.

  Others joined in the laughter, but their ruckus shriveled to a faint breeze in my ears. Prince Torram’s hard stare swallowed me whole. I had to stand and fight, but another dreadful notion poked and pricked my mind. Tendrils of terror swam through my limbs as the realization pounded through my head.

  I couldn’t lose.

  This didn’t just affect me and my freedom, but Svotheim’s reputation and his mission as well. His success for Ark Ulfur would be mine as well. The two of us were tied together in this struggle for glory.

  What would he do to me if I lost?

  My fists tightened, and I stood from my seat, despite the ball of dread that sank into my lungs.

  “Let her feel a Rekke woman’s strength,” cried someone from the crowd.

  Veny squared off before me. Her hands rested just at her chest, ready to strike.

  “Mind focused. Eye on the target.” He didn’t say my name, but I knew Torram was speaking to me.

  Veny released a loose fist at my face.

  I evaded to the side. My red-hot limbs longed to counter, but I pulled myself back. When the time came for me to attack, I had to be sure of the move. Veny only needed one opening to tear me apart. She had at least six inches of height on me and as much in reach. Her arms were twice the size as mine. The woman was practically swinging boulders at the end of each arm.

  Veny’s boot stomped on the ground as she lunged forward with a jab.

  I caught it with my forearm and slung a right hook into her gut. My fist was met with a hard mixture of fat and muscle. There was no reaction from Veny other than an audible huff.

  I dashed back out but a searing pain ripped through my side. Veny’s cross slammed into my ribs.

  Stumbling back, my feet just barely caught my weight. I had to ignore the ache and focus on the fight, but the blow had agitated the drink in my belly. My gut soured, and my nerves cried under the pulsing pain.

  Veny sprung toward me with a cross.

  I dropped to the floor. The blow’s wake blew along the top of my head, sending a cold shiver down my spine. It stayed with me as I spun and swept Veny’s feet out from under her hefty torso. The Rekke giantess came down with a clatter that sent the room into a howl.

  Not wanting to linger within her grasp, I hopped backwards onto my feet. But my hand caught a chair’s edge, and a warm whipping sting sweltered across my wrist. I shook out the limb in an attempt to cease the discomfort.

  Red in the face, Veny launched herself back onto her feet. “Stop running, you coward, and fight me!”

  “I am not a coward.” The words burned across my tongue, igniting a rage inside of me. I was many things, but a coward wasn’t one of them.

  My hand wrapped around the chair’s back. The hard wood was cool in my grasp. In one fluid motion, I swung the piece upward as Veny reached for me once again. Its hard seat met with her face as its legs shattered against her frame. Spittle and splinters flew in the air seconds before a tiny strand of skipping light skirted along the collapsing body of the wooden chair. It struck Veny’s cheek.

  The woman dropped into a whimpering heap on the hard floor. Her hands clasped her face as streams of red trickled along her fingers. Her locks of singed hair fell across her arm.

  The crowd’s roar flooded my senses. The sound vibrated against my flesh and sank into my ears. My gaze floated to Torram and was met with an approving grin.

  XV

  Passage Confessions

  I stepped out of the hall, needing to breathe. The windows remained opened, but the breeze had been lost. With the night growing old and most attendees blind with drink, the air had grown acrid. The mixture reminded me of my own mother. Body odor, sour breath, and humidity to infuse it all.

  I flexed my hand for the fiftieth time that night. It was still sore from my fight with Veny. A weird sizzle continued to pop at the ends of my fingers, refusing to fade. I had spent the last hour with my hand tucked into my lap, hoping the sensation would go away. Nobody had said anything about the spark, but Veny’s look was… different.

  When the passage near the hall began to dim from lack of torch light, I stopped my walk. My back pressed against the red clay walls and my eyelids drooped. I sucked in a cool breath, filling my chest. Sometimes I missed my wooden home and feeling the wind sweep across my cheek. It wasn’t the best from a defensive perspective, but it rarely grew this stuffy inside.

  The tap of boots against hard tiles drew my attention. Someone was coming down the passage, heading straight for me. The tall figure passed a sconce, and the flame illuminated Svotheim’s face. His signature kohl liner around his eyes had smeared slightly, creating a smoky eye. The look was highlighted by glittering blond strands that had broken free from his ponytail and rested just on the outer edge of the blurred kohl.

  “Tomorrow,” he muttered. “We put our plan into action. I want you on a horse, riding south for Essony.” His words slipped and slid, lubricated by the miode in his belly. “I will stay here to fix the boat and continue to woo the brothers.”

  My stomach twisted. I knew this conversation was coming sooner or later. “What? Still? You really mean for me to do this?”

  “Yes.” He leaned against the wall only a few feet away from me.

  “Svotheim.” I sighed, shaking my head. “I understand how badly you want the Rekke to help us. It’ll be a great diplomatic feat that Ark Ulfur will have to commend you upon. But I don’t think your plan will work.”

  “Why?” He folded his arms, and his lips drew inward.

  I needed to choose my words wisely. It would be easy to overstep my place. “For one, I don’t even know where Essony is, nor do we have a horse. If I manage to find my way to this king’s keep, how do I get in? How do I get close to him? How do I summon the skills necessary to assassinate him and make it out alive?”

  He scoffed. “We can trace out your journey before you leave, and that trip will give you plenty of time to come up with a convincing backstory. These are all just useles
s, lazy excuses. Fake reasons for why you shouldn’t go.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “You’re not listening to me. I can’t do this. I’m not physically capable. I’m not an assassin. I’m not a killer. I’m not charming or cunning. I don’t possess any special skills to attract the attention of anyone, especially not a king.”

  “Derethe—”

  “Furthermore, I don’t believe this is the path we should take. You can’t just run around murdering people in order to get what you want. What if we somehow manage to kill him, and it creates more trouble for Rekkesov? You don’t know what the outcome of this will be.”

  “Derethe—” His voice raised in volume, attempting once more to cut me off. But I didn’t yield.

  “You know nothing of their affairs, and to push me into doing this is just wrong. I’m a slave, Svotheim. I’m a servant, a laborer. And nothing more.” I swallowed hard. The truth was more difficult to get down than I thought it would be. “How can you ask me to do this?” The pressure built in my stomach. It felt like he was asking the world of me—forcing me to solve this political issue and bring him glory when I couldn’t. That small spectacle fight with Veny had taken all the courage I had inside of me. How could I possibly take on a king?

  There was a long pause between us as I waited for him to reply. One that I hoped the darkness would fill; but instead, the night lingered outside of us, not wanting to touch the tension radiating from Svotheim. His breath beat into the open air, calm but irritated.

  “You want to know why he left without you, Derethe?” Svotheim hissed. “I bet you’ve thought about it every night before you go to bed. Why did he choose Irska over you? Why didn’t he at least try to claim you or liberate you or buy you as a bed pleasure and take you away with him?” Svotheim straightened himself into a towering stance. “It’s because you lack strength and the capability of wielding it. There was a moment when you had sway with him—it saved your life. He voted to let you live, despite the fact that he knew you had killed the other Sairans. Three slaves murdered. Five Varundians wronged, and he let you walk. That’s when you had the power to move his hand, but you didn’t. You waited around for him to save you like some damsel in distress.” His face leaned in close. “Wake up, Derethe. No Varundian wants a weak woman, especially not Iver. If you want a chance with him, you need to be his equal. Even if it’s in your own way. You need to learn how to make decisions, wield power, and quit being a helpless, pathetic slave. Find strength. Take responsibility over your destiny. Choose to be fearless.”